


Marked: Part VI ("Dependence")

by goodgirlwhoshopeful



Series: Marked [6]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), CHRISTIE Agatha - Works
Genre: ATTWN, AU, Agatha Christie - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enjoy!, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tension, alternative universe, here it comes......, philip x vera, the plot divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlwhoshopeful/pseuds/goodgirlwhoshopeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Could she be a light now dimmed, not yet accustomed to Philip’s great darkness? (The very same darkness he claimed to embrace as though it were the wings of Saint Peter).  Or… was she something else? Was she just adjusting to his darkness… or was this new Mark in fact a sign she had finally ascended from her own darkness and had found a guiding light?</p><p>	It could be that Philip Lombard was her light… as what if a light did not need to be pure, or even clean, to be a guide all the same? After all, the dimmest of candlelight could be enough to bring one out of the darkest tunnel.</p><p> </p><p>Soulmate-Identifying Marks AU in canon with the BBC's 2015 adaptation.<br/>(Split into parts for easy reading / to allow feedback on sections).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked: Part VI ("Dependence")

**Author's Note:**

> To my betas, @evennstars and @bruhcewaynes… thank you so much for all your cheerleading/help/love. This was a very difficult chapter to write for poor ol’ Vera… Just… thank you. I’m so lucky to have you).
> 
> This is a monster, monster of a chapter and I’m not sorry for it…. PLEASE COMMENT and let me know what you think of my plot divergence....

VI

* * *

 

_"Dependence"_

* * *

**P. Lombard**

 

 

Philip set on after her the moment he realised what she was about, but _boy_ , she was _fast._

He stripped himself of his shirt hurriedly and wrapped it around his bullet wound in the hope of halting the blood that was seeping from him, heavy drops falling fast to the sand, staining his shoes. He knew that the bullet still remained in his arm and was incredibly grateful for it; had it been slightly higher, it may have severed a vital artery. As it was, the bullet was blocking a great deal of the bleeding, so all in all, he was lucky. 

When Vera made a break for the waves, he recalled her previous attempt to swim from the island, when the Judge had pulled her back and brought her into the library soaked to the bone. Somehow though, this seemed different. 

She had looked him in the eye before she went and for the first time, he did not see fear, but _resignation._

Instantly, he simply knew he had to try and save her. 

Swimming was hard, fighting a tide like that with one good arm, but he fought on, keeping on eye on her dark head as she swam out hastily toward the horizon. He groaned and grumbled about it as he went, half wondering why on earth he was bothering, but then he’d remember how she questioned him, how she _intrigued_ him and how he truly had grown to _want_ her around. Mostly, he remembered her skills and talents of deception and _knew_ that if he was to get off this island, then he needed Vera Claythorne very much alive. 

The icy water was agony as it soaked his wound as it seething viciously like acid with the burn of salt, but at least it would clean it organically. Desperately, Philip powered through the pain, an ability of his he had never been more grateful for than in that moment, determined to get to Vera before she could do herself away. “Vera!” he shouted over the sound of the waves. Using the power of his legs to keep himself afloat, he bobbed in the depths for a moment, surveying the waters. The waves were strong this far out, the shoreline now a considerable distance, perhaps half a mile from where the two had stood on the sand not five minutes before. Ducking his head beneath the waves, he attempted to look for her through painfully stinging eyes. The water was jarringly cold and sent his body into involuntary shivers as he thrust himself back up for air. He had kept his eye on her as much as he could as she swam out. She _had_ to be here somewhere. He let out a massive guttural growl toward the sky, knowing if he could no longer see Vera above the waves, then he was running out of time. Again and again he ducked and swam down beneath the waves in search of her, feeling desperation begin to creep in with the cold.

Then – _relief._

Beneath the strength of the waves, the ocean was surprisingly calm and clear, not yet deep enough to be black as pitch. It was here he found her, his dark-haired murderous temptress, gradually sinking down into the great abyss of the ocean. It took all the energy he had left in him to pull her to the surface, clamping his bad arm around her middle with all the strength he could muster. Upon breaking to the surface, he took her limp head into his hand, noting that she was completely unresponsive. 

As exposure to oxygen did not rouse her, his stomach dropped. Her face was pale, her lips a sickly, lifeless blue, her body a dead weight in his arms. “Oh, you’re lucky you’re a looker, Vera,” he sighed to himself as he pulled her over his back, disbelieving that he found himself in such a situation, _and for the survival of someone else, no less!_

Beginning the swim back to shore with as much speed as he could manage, Philip barely even felt the electrifying, white-hot pain in his arm anymore. Determination drowned out any pre-existing utterances of weakness as his trademark tunnel vision descended. The moment his feet could once again touch the seabed, he powered through the shallows breathlessly, pulling Vera into his good side and dragging her as ceremoniously as he could to the shore. 

Once on dry sand, not two foot from where his blood first marked the ground, he knew he could waste not one moment. 

“ _Breathe_ , Vera! _Breathe!”_ he muttered urgently as he drew back her slack jaw, widening her airway as he knelt beside her. Her body was lifeless and Philip knew what lay before him was, in truth, a corpse. Never had the sight of a dead body filled him with dread before.

Without hesitation, he lowered his open mouth over her cracked, discoloured lips and expelled the air from his lungs into hers, his fingers around her jaw and holding her nose. Her body’s biology responded, her chest rising with the movement of the air as he drew back just enough to take another breath and repeat himself, but there was no _life_. He drew back after four solid breaths and began chest compressions, pressing the heels of his hands against her sternum in the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. The effort made him sweat, despite his violent shivering and shirtless-ness, drawing yet more laboured breathing from his own lungs.  Using his bad arm was agony, but it was a necessity. He could not revive her with only one. Blood streamed from his bound bicep, down over his desperate hands as they worked. Memories blinkered his vision and sent him feverish as he desperately tried to exile them to no avail. 

 

 _“Aednat! Aednat! Oh, Sweet Saint Mary, no! What do I do?!” Her blonde curls had been in the way, in his face. They were_ always _in his face… “She’s n’breathin’! I_ told _ya not_ to go int’ the water! _All of ya’! Oh, no, no –_ Please _sweet Aednat, darlin’!…” His brothers had stood around, breathless, silent tears running down their faces. All his junior, their round eyes looked to him with agonising desperation, begging him to do something; all urging their elder brother they knew to be ruthless to, for once, be ruthless for good…_ _The weight of those four pairs of eyes plagued the darkest corners of his mind for good._  

 _“Where’s tha’ doctor?!” His mother had been screaming… She never screamed, or cried. “Ya’ killed her, ya’_ stupid _boys! Gobshites, the lot o’ ya’!” Her hands had been frantic and and they shook like floundering fish – “So useless!” – until finally Philip had had to take over, her hysterics too much. He had only been small – but twelve years old – but he had been pragmatic even then._

 _He_ had _tried to save her, his youngest, and by far most agreeable, sibling, but he had known_ nothing _about_ how _to do so, that day – no idea how. Instead, he was left with no choice but to simply kneel and beg, beg a God in whom he did not believe for breath to come back to the only human being he had ever been close to loving._

_“Come back, Aednat.”  
It never did._

 

Blinking away unwelcome images of a time he had long suppressed, he pushed harder against Vera’s chest, feeling her bones creek beneath his resolute hands, as though even her skeleton may be protesting his insistence that she live. “ _C’mon!”_ he urged brusquely through gritted teeth, urgent. “You _will_ live, you hear me?!” With each push, he felt anger and frustration bubble in his chest. _How_ dare _she do this to him? Perhaps he had completely underestimated her… Perhaps she was just as self-interested as he was, after all._ “I need ya’, alright? We’re _not_ done here.” 

He felt her bones protest under his strength as he carried on resuscitation. He’s probably cracked a rib or two, at a guess, and the thought triggered an enlightenment in him. It was strangely intimate act, saving a life. Perhaps it was his malice nature, but Philip had always assumed that _taking_ a life was the most intimate he would ever be with his fellow man, considering his inability to connect emotionally with people. He had long been convinced that the ability to take a life gave a man the greatest possible power and that therefore all else paled into insignificance… 

However, as he felt Vera take the second first breath of her life beneath him, Philip Lombard was suddenly filled with the undeniable realisation that he just may, for once, have been wrong.

“ _Sweet_ Saint Mary,” he breathed to himself in relief, as his mother always used to say, though his own adopting of the saying was ironic, of course, considering he had always considered her Catholicism utter _bollocks_. Vera launched for breath after breath, her body suddenly rigid as she violently coughed up seawater to the side of her head. Saliva hung from her mouth as she heaved and he found himself assisting her with quick hands, cradling her while she wretched. He braced himself against the sand as she calmed, gasping for breath himself as his adrenaline began to fade, leaving nothing but exhaustion and burning pain in its place. 

“Ah,” he sighed, tipping his face toward the sky. “God, you _bitch,_ ” he gasped, almost affectionately, as his hand moved to grasp his blood-soaked bicep.

“Hugo?” she whispered hoarsely as she attempted to open her eyes. The name left Philip’s stomach at his feet. _Hugo? Who was_ that?!

“It’s Philip,” he replied tersely. “Y’alright now, Vera. We’re going to get out of here – _together_.”  

When he looked up, she was staring at him, her eyes were filled with surprise and dismay. 

“You saved me.” Her voice was hoarse and she winced as she spoke, beginning to shake violently with the cold. Her eyes were suddenly narrow and hard. “You had no right!”

Rolling his eyes and laughing, Philip went to stand, his bad arm braced over his chest. “Honestly, woman! You think I’m the murderer, so you shoot me – _then, despite_ having a fuckin’ bullet in my arm, I stop you from killing yourself and you are _still_ scathing of _me_?”

“I never _asked_ you to save me!” she tried to shout, gritting her teeth against the shudders as she curled her arms around her knees. 

“Vera – “

“Don’t you _understand?!_ I didn’t _want_ to be saved!” The words bounced off the pale cliffs and Philip even felt them in his chest. Narrowing his eyes, he studied her intently, realising that what he could see shining in the whites of her eyes was the bleak truth: Vera Claythorne was a lost, _dark_ soul.

“Typical _man,_ ” she berated. Her anger had suddenly dissipated. “You think you know…the answer…to everything…so you just… _act…_ ” Her words came slowly as she suddenly struggled for breath.

“I had to resuscitate you. I suspect you may have a cracked rib or two.” He was sorry for that. He had never once wanted to hurt her, bar a few seconds after she shot him in the arm. She attempted to move and wheezed in sudden agony, a hand instantly moving to the underside of her breast. “ _Easy,_ Vera! _Easy!_ You were _dead_ not two minutes ago – “

She cleared her throat and shook her head. “It’s not that… I just – “ She now shuddered so violently that her speech was disjointed. “There ‘s something – _b-burning –_ “

He frowned and went to help her stand. “C’mon. It’s time to end this. We have to get you inside before you catch y’death, then we’re going to wait there together until this cowardly _bastard_ shows his face…whoever he is.”

 

* * *

**V. E Claythorne**

 

She tried not to panic as Philip led her back into the house. His hand was around her, his fingers curled around her burning ribcage, as though knowing she needed to be held together. His contact there, where the burning pain originated, made it almost unbearable; like pins and needles but so strong that it _hurt._ She didn’t want to think of what it could be, nor did she have time to do so. Upon reaching the threshold of the looming mansion, she stalled. The static itch of her skin robbed her of breath – breath that fear had already taken. 

Her anger at Philip reared its head. _How_ dare _he save her life when she had chosen her own fate?! Now she was facing God only knew what barbaric death…and all because of his pride!_ She was shaking violently, her body yet to recover from her drowning as her extremities were still discoloured and slightly numb. She knew she needed to get warm… but the last thing she wanted was to re-enter that house. 

“Philip,” she whispered, gripping his middle as he helped her stand. “Philip, I’m frightened.” She realised she must have _looked_ a frightened mess, because he bracketed her face with his good hand, the other covered now in his own blood, and looked at her with a intensity that bordered on _kindness_. Guilt flooded her at the sight of it, for it was clear to her now the flog of her mind had lifted that he was not the killer. She had wasted their last bullet on the arm of her ally.

His eyes shined with a sliver of doubt and worry, and perhaps sympathy. “Breathe for me, Vera.” His lips came to rest against her hairline as she gripped the front of his shirt with her shaking hands and the tiny glimpse of tenderness was enough to calm her nerves a fraction. “It won’t be long now.”

He was right, too. 

As they made their way into the house as silently as possible, it didn’t take long for them to hear footsteps from above. She shook now not only with cold but utter terror, feeling far too physically weak to combat the killer in that moment. Automatically, her round eyes shot to Philip and then to his wounded arm. How could they fight for their lives in such a state?

Together, they inched up the staircase, but not before Philip retrieved a large, sinister kitchen knife from below stairs. The entire way, he pushed her behind him so his body was a shield and while part of her was offended by his thinking she needed his protection, she did not contest it. It was nice to have someone caring for her wellbeing.

The footsteps were coming from Vera’s bedroom and it was there they found the menace responsible for all the horror they had experienced on the island: the _Honourable_ Justice Wargrave (whom, according to them, had been dead for over twelve hours).  

Vera gasped aloud without hesitation at the sight of him, not able to believe that the seemingly frail, kind elderly man was in fact the man behind all the unspeakable, senseless violence. _How could it be?_

 _“Judge?!”_ Vera felt her shuddering subside with the shock. 

“I always thought perhaps the two of you would ally together,” the Judge smirked from his grand posture by the window. “But I have to say, I did predict that Miss Claythorne would be a better shot…” 

Philip’s lip ticked in fury even before he spoke. “Personally, I’m incredibly thankful for that oversight.” The kitchen knife glinted by his side, and Vera struggled to breathe at the sight of it. 

“Why?” she found herself asking, infuriated with herself for her voice shaking. “Why do _any_ of this?”

The Judge shrugged and looked to Philip to explain, who’s expression told of a sudden realisation.

“ _Of course – you’re_ Mr. Unknown Owen!” he began. “They said that a film star was pegged to purchase the island… until an _unknown_ appeared and it was suddenly sold… and you were the one to discover the riddle in U. N. Owen’s name in the first place! You’re a man who thrives on watching men _hang_ for a living…and this is the ultimate power trip! It’s so clear now!” 

Vera studied Philip, his bloodied bad arm dripping onto the carpet, fascinated by the sight of his mental cogs turning. 

“You _tricked_ Armstrong – got him to run off into the night, making him think you were going to meet him there and spare him…”

“Very good, Mr. Lombard,” he appraised. “You are quite the sanest of the lot, I always thought.” Philip narrowed his eyes at the compliment. “That being said… You took _her_ as your lover…” the Judge continued with a smug chuckle. He tutted them patronisingly and it made Vera’s hands sweat with the urge to charge. “She’s quite a manipulative one – aren’t you, _Vera_?” Vera flinched at the insult, despite the fact it wasn’t true. _“Don’t_ you say her name!” Philip exploded lowly, which of course left a smile on the despicable Englishman’s face. 

“Though you are both Blanks,” the Judge carried on, unfazed. “So, perhaps it is typical the the two of you would give into such base desires so foolishly – I expected _more_ , quite honestly.”

Vera eyes were wide at the elder man’s statement. _Both of them? But she’d seen Philip’s Mark on his arm! What?_

“ _More_ , hm?!” Philip abandoned all hope of composure then, charging toward the elder man. Despite the man’s height advantage, Philip easily overpowered him, knocking him to the ground. “I’ll show you _more_ – I should make this _slow_ ,” he growled. 

The thought left Vera feeling sick. _No more blood._ “Philip, no! It just needs to be _over!”_

Philip’s chest heaved hard as he appeared to reluctantly take on her protests.  
“Who would have thought,” the Judge murmured with a smile, his tone as though he had a secret. “A second girl captured the Irish gun’s heart – ”

 _“ – Enough!”_ the Irishman yelled to silence him, leaving Vera reeling at yet _another_ revelation. _There is_ so _much you don’t know about this man…_  

Philip pinned the elder man to the floor by straddling his chest, pressing the side of the knife to the man’s throat and seeming to enjoy the surprise in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he managed to reel himself in enough to suddenly look over his shoulder. There, Vera leant against the bed, struggling to stand.

“Look away, Vera!” he urged lowly, a tone which took her by surprise. “Don’t look!” 

It seemed Philip already knew of her mind’s ability to linger on dark thoughts, for how else would he know she could take no more violence? 

She stared forward at her discarded sheets, mangled on the bed, as though they were of the upmost significance. She chose instead to distract herself with thoughts of how wondrous it felt when he took her, ridding her of all layers between them, of all her mind’s dark preoccupations…

In her periphery, Philip plunged the knife into the elder man’s chest and despite her attempts to remain distracted, she barely held in a shriek at the sickening sound of the impact. Philip simply backed away impassively, his chest heaving with the effort. 

“Enough now,” he breathed as he staggered back. She hadn’t noticed how cold she was, or how her hypothermic shivers had returned with a vengeance, until Philip pulled the blanket from her bed and wrapped it around her. Her eyes looked up at him as he did so, but she seemed incapable of focussing on his expression. Suddenly, she was _exhausted,_ her limbs feeling as though they were made of lead. Without the adrenaline of danger, she felt like death warmed up… which was surely an indication of how poor Philip must have felt with a bullet in his arm. 

“What did he mean?” 

As Philip wearily perched beside her, she half expected he might snipe impatiently. Instead, he simply sighed heavily and kept his quiet.

“ _Philip?_ About us both being Blanks, what did he _mean_?” With a strangled groan, he tugged Vera from her internalised posture and lead her toward the bathroom, _still_ not answering. “He said we were _both_ Unmarked! Philip!” she protested hastily, her voice disjointed with her shivers. Looking up, she could see he was laughing at her, a smug smile stretching across his face. As he leant over to begin drawing a bath, she could see the Mark clearly, stoking anger in her gut. “ _There!_ I see it! What did the Judge mean that we’re both Unmarked?! Don’t you _dare_ and deny it!”

Philip rose and turned to her with a look of acceptance, stretching his good arm out before her. The copper coloured wording was now clear for her to see. It was faded and soft across the very inside of his bicep, as a Mark should be when it is somewhat newly formed in the skin. Usually, Marks as pale as this one would be found in a fifteen year old, not a thirty year old grown man. “ _Is iomaí craiceann a chuireas an óige di,”_ were the words – all but _nonsense_ to Vera. 

“It’s a forgery,” he confessed in a deadpan tone with a amused smirk, though his eyes told of his weariness. 

She was filled with such intoxicating _relief_ at the news, though it was utterly _ridiculous_ that she be. He had owed her nothing, nor promised her anything…and yet she had felt such a kinship with this man that she had assumed he was like her…to the point that the thought that he wasn’t, and would therefore judge her also, had become almost too much to bare. 

“Temporary too. It’s fading now, after that impromptu sea swim,” he continued with a knowing expression. “I’m not normally one to care what people think, but when I knew I’d be coming to an island of potentially problematic strangers that I should take the necessary proportions. Upperclass folk – well, you _saw_ how they turn the Unmarked into a suspicious underclass. It was to minimise suspicion… Not that it matters now, o’course.”

The concept was utterly intriguing to Vera. She’d heard many a time of false Marks being acquired, but only ever by those considered to be unethical and criminal. Very bad forgeries could be acquired on the black market in big cities, of course; popular with the Unmarked poor whom are looking for better job prospects. (After all, these days one’s Marked status had to go down on most employment papers. They didn’t ask you to strip yourself of your clothing so they could check, obviously, but such employment required a note from one’s doctor. Vera had been lucky; thus far all her employers had taken her word for it… but then, of course they did. It was her oldest and most well rehearsed lie). 

Recently, Vera had also heard that falsified Marks were also prolific among the wealthy, who apparently paid to have the names their spouses added in cosmetic procedures at London’s most prestigious hospitals, paranoid of where they stood in their social position it was revealed they were without one. 

Vera wasn’t sure where Philip went to have his done, but she understood what he meant. It had been a wise decision to take all precautions. She considered perhaps she should do so herself… It would give her visible evidence to back up the lie, after all. 

Reaching out, she allowed her fingers to trace the words of the false Mark for a moment, noting the velvet texture of the intimate, untarnished skin. 

“Decided on being a Numbered,” he explained with a knowing smile. “It seemed… fitting.”

She had known since childhood that Non-Initial Marks, that is a Mark of a person’s last words rather than one of the initials of their ‘soul-mate’, manifested in whatever native language an individual’s brain learned first. It was all part of the body's biology apparently, not that Vera had ever taken the time to understand the science behind it. 

She’d heard the term he used before, a ‘Numbered’, amongst the working classes, used when describing those with said Non-Initial Marks. She never quite understood the relevance of the nickname. _Numbered._ Suddenly now it came to her. A person whose last words were written on them, in a sense, had their days _numbered._ It was quite a funny nickname, actually.  
“Gaelic, I presume?” Philip nodded, suddenly looking very pleased with himself. 

“Yes… It’s just a proverb.”

She was unable to resist, as she searched his eyes with her own curious gaze. “What does it mean?”

 _“Youth sheds many a skin,”_ he replied. His eyes looked into hers as though she should take a double meaning from such words, and truthfully, they _did_ instantly strike a chord. She had become quite a different person from the meek, frustrated and bitter girl of her youth, for example, and that was all down to what she had to do to survive. She was beginning to realise, in that respect, Philip and herself were no different… While he turned to blood, she turned to lies. 

He leant over to check the bath temperature then, no elaborating on the subject. _So, that was it then,_ she thought. _They_ were _the same… She_ had _been right._

“Get in, Vera,” he murmured, his voice so quiet now that they were surrounded by such suffocating calm. 

“No!” she instantly protested, the sight of the liquid filling the tub setting a sweat over her lip. Water now held such darkness in her consciousness. She wasn’t sure she could be trusted. Not now. “Not water… I don’t think I can…”

Philip paused, seemingly considering for the first time that it may not be smartest of decisions, considering she had just drowned herself. However, he shook his head at her after a moment. 

“Vera – it’ll be alright. I promise ya’.” He then chuckled darkly to himself, the humour followed by a wince. “I’m hardly going to let you do that again.”

 _He is kind,_ she considered as she watched him move about tasks on her behalf, when she hadn’t even asked him to. _Somehow, he is kind… Somehow._ She was so grateful to him in that moment that suddenly she felt enough energy to return the favour. 

Steadily and slowly, now that all the threats were gone, she made her way, still wrapped in her blanket, down to the kitchen. Once there, she grabbed one of U. N. Owen’s left over bottles of brandy, followed by linens and a needle and silk thread. When she made her way back to the lavatory, Philip was stood, groaning and inspecting his wound in the mirror. His bare back glistened with a slight sweat and his chest rose and fell in quick succession. 

“Here – let me help,” she offered, her voice sounding just as awkward as she felt inside. She wasn’t sure she knew how to interact with him now… After all, the threat was gone. Wargrave, Mr. Unknown Owen, was dead. Their entire bonding had been in the face of life – and sanity – threatening terror…and now in its place was a calm that neither of them seemed at all comfortable with. 

Well – a calm that was bolstered by the matter of one, somewhat considerable, bullet wound.

Philip denied her offer at first – (“Y’need to get _warm,_ Vera! I can do this myself!”) – until she applied force. She pushed him to sit in the armchair by the window – (It was such a middle class thing to have an armchair in a bathroom window!) – and began to unwrap the blood-soaked shirt he had used as a temporary bandage. 

She had known the basic principles of first aid after her short stint as a teacher in a very upmarket school for girls. They had had an awful incident in which a girl had choked to death on a bone from her meal, and so it had become a priority for the staff to learn it. 

Hastily, she unwrapped the clean linens while ordering him to apply pressure on the wound with his hand. While it was not bleeding as it had before, the wound was far too severe to mend alone. She felt her stomach curl at the thought… If they didn’t stitch him up, he would surely slowly bleed to death…

“Philip, I – “

“Fetch a candle, Vera, will you?” he urged, his voice ragged with the pain. She hurried to do so, lighting the match as she leant back down in front of his hunched form. To Vera’s astonishment, Philip then picked up the needle from where she had placed it and held it over the flame.

“Sterilisation,” she breathed in realisation, her mind foggy with exhaustion. _“Oh God,”_ she whispered to herself in horror, realising what he was about to do. 

Quickly, before he could begin, she rolled up a flannel from beside her and leant up on her knees, holding it to him mouth. “Bite down on this,” she instructed quietly, unable to look at his arm. 

Philip’s eyes, despite his physical state, still laughed at her. “I’ll be…alright…Vera.” 

Instantly, she had _had_ it with his stubbornness. “Just do it! For _me!_ ” 

With an eye-roll, he consequently took the fabric into his mouth, tight between his teeth – but not before taking _painfully_ long swigs of the brandy. So many, in fact, she had to halt him. Next came the difficult part, as he looked to her for help. With lungs that would barely co-operate, she felt her body rigid with tension. She knew that what she was about to do, what he _needed_ her to do, would cause unimaginable pain before it could be over. 

In one last attempt to pacify her own immeasurable capacity for guilt, she moved to sit on his lap, mostly to keep him held down, and squeezed his good hand. 

Then, with the flick of a wrist, she hid her face into the the curl of his neck as she tripped the brandy over his bloody arm, directly into his bullet wound. 

The cry that just left Philip’s lips was unspeakable, one she had never heard from a human being before and knew would haunt her dreams for eternity, along with bloody corpses and little Cyril. At first, he could form no words, left simply with the most animalistic cry for help imaginable. It was harsh, an involuntary grunt and growl, but also heartbreakingly fragile, as though pleading with the universe. Then, the inevitable expletives began. She felt his chest against her own and knew he was attempting to hold it in, as it heaved and twisted with his involuntary attempts to squirm away, but not even Philip Lombard was invincible when he had a bullet in his arm. She thanked high heaven she had thought to muffle him with that flannel in his mouth. 

Leaning over to inspect the wound, she poured on a dash more, for yet another whine to leave his chest, as much as he tried to curb it and uphold his facade of the _upmost_ masculinity. 

“Sorry,” she whispered to him, wiping the wound down with a damp linen, trying not to look at the way the clean, white fabric became brown and scarlet red. “I’m sorry, Philip.” 

She hadn’t meant just for the brandy, and he knew that. He must have done, as he leant forward and kissed her head – yet another move that left her totally endeared but also totally _baffled_. 

“S’alright, Vera.” She turned to inspect his face upon hearing this. She was greeted by eyes that were pinched with agony, but that still shined with the mischief she had grown to hate…and love. “I like to think…s’all…buildin’ ya’ character.”

She managed a laugh at that, _somehow_ , but the relief from tension was short-lived as Philip had her thread the needle for him. Doing so, she felt as though she was handling a loaded gun all over again, in some sort of way, except this time it was not an impediment of death but _torture_ … When he asked she hold his arm in place, she almost refused, not sure she could stomach being the source of his pain any longer, but of course she could not deny him, as she was the reason for his wound in the first place. 

In horror and utter fascination, she watched as he began to stitch himself up; something that would make any ordinary person vomit and perhaps even fall unconscious from the pain. Philip though did little more than grunt every so often, his face an image of stoic willpower and determination. It was clear to see this was not his first rodeo, that his skills, though slap-dash and improvised, where practiced. It left her wondering of all the injuries he had seen in his relatively short life… and how many of those he had _inflicted._ It had to be said, she would never have thought a man who killed for a living would also be an expert in preserving life…but then such facts were suddenly all too obvious. _Of course_ Philip knew such things. How would he have gotten so far without them? 

She gazed at his tanned, shirtless figure while he was distractedly wiping the last of the blood from his arm and it dawned on her with the weight of the sky. 

Philip never set _out_ to be a killer… No, Philip simply _survived,_ by whatever means necessary.

By the time he was done, sweat had formed across his brow and upper lip. Vera herself now felt hot too, despite the fact she had done little but sit and watch through her fingers. Her blouse, still very damp from her time in the ocean, now stuck to her back in an almost feverish sweat. 

“Now you,” Philip rasped, his words a gentle order as she bandaged up the stitches and helped him create a temporary sling with linen. “You’re burning up, Vera. You need to get out of those clothes.”

“Yes, yes, alright,” she conceded wearily, stepping back from him enough to undress. She felt chronically self-conscious under his watchful gaze all of a sudden, feeling it burn her skin and cause a ripple up her spine. She knew it was ridiculous, since he had already seen every part of her there was to see, but she turned her back anyway. She wasn’t in the mood to please him. He lounged in the armchair, evidently with no intention of moving to allow her any privacy. It was the least she deserved, really. She _did_ shoot him in the arm. 

With a pause, she stripped down to her silk camisole and knickers before rolling her tense neck. Standing before the mirror of the sink, she inspected her reflection with a downturned mouth. Her eyes were dull and shadowed with dark brown circles, indicating days of sleepless nights fraught with distress and nightmares, her skin as pale as a sheet. Her lips seemed to have only just regained their natural colour after her time…well, _drowned,_ as they were still somewhat pale in a shade between pink and blue. Her neck and clavicle were marred with the tell-tale bruising of their furious fucking, crescent bite shapes littered across her skin. 

She swallowed, wondering what on earth it was Philip thought was worth staring at, before moving to lift her camisole. She did so, knowing he was watching her back, almost dropping the silk to the floor.

That is, until she caught sight of dark patch of skinon the underside of her left breast… It was brown, the colour of freckles. It almost looked like –

_No._

She audibly choked and pulled the silk to cover herself, frozen in place with rigid posture in the same way one would be upon discovering an unknown stain of blood. 

_It couldn’t be…_

When she was a young, prepubescent girl, she had dreamed of the day her Mark might appear on her skin, desperate to no longer be the subject of prejudice and ridicule with her peers. The irony did not escape her that now it finally had appeared, she felt nothing but stone cold, suffocating _dread_. 

“Get out!” she murmured hurriedly, panic rising up her throat thick and fast like vomit. She knew he hadn’t seen what she had seen, since her back had been turned, but she could risk him peaking. He could _not_ see this. He could _never_ see this. 

Behind her, Philip simply made a sound of bemusement. “What?”

 _“Get out!”_ she ordered again, her voice rising. She turned her head and took in his surprised expression where he still lounged in the armchair. “Do you not hear me when I speak?! _Get out!”_

Her tone was beseeched and hysterical as her hands shook against her chest, clutching the silk in a white-knuckle grip. She could barely breathe, let alone _think_. She just needed to be alone. She needed to look at it. _God forbid_ what it was to say… 

Philip was behind her now, frowning and gripping her shoulder, attempting to get her to turn away from the sink. Every touch felt like a scorch to her skin. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Vera! What – ?!”

“ _Please_ Philip! _Please_ don’t make me say it again.”

Thankfully, he didn’t. 

“I’ll be just outside…” he murmured, not an inch from the back of her neck. She felt his hot breath at the base of her neck and it woke her feverish shivers. A wave of desire rolled through her instantly, leaving behind a suffocating sensation that felt half way between pubescent lust and a menopausal hot flush. 

As the solid oak door click shut, she felt as though God himself pressed had her chest pressed under his boot. With blurred vision, she dropped the fabric and stumbled toward the sink, pulling up her breast with her fingers to inspect what she had seen.

She _prayed_ she had been mistaken… but there it was, as plain as the nose on her face. In the mirror, the letters were backwards, and they were faint, as any fresh Mark always was, so she had to concentrate and squint to make them out…but they were very much there. The reality of it made her knees weak.

**_P.L ._ **

The initials stood out body against her pale skin like blood on white sheets…and left her with equal terror, because there was no doubting whose initials they were. 

She braced herself against the porcelain basin and barely resisted the sudden urge to vomit. Confusion clouded any hope of calm that Vera had been hoping for. “ _It can’t be…”_ she whispered to herself, suddenly aware she was crying. The sobs felt like a tsunami, building and building into a wave so destructive until no amount of flood defences could hold them back. She wasn’t one to cry and never had been, but it came as an inevitability now. It all came back at once, all that she had endured, not only in the last few days, but since she had lost Hugo. The long lonely nights, frequenting bars in her only good, emerald dress with the hidden tear in _desperate_ attempts to forget all she had lost; the struggling just to make ends meet; the chronic boredom at her latest job; the thrill of Philip’s ungentlemanly gaze on the train; his devastating beauty with his long lashes and his angular jawline and utterly awful utterances at her expense; Marston’s blood on her cheek; Philip’s unexpected chivalry; the swimsuit; the stares; the _sex._

All of it came back and was acquainted to two simple letters that were now forever etched on her skin: the initials of, none other than, Philip Lombard. 

She thought of the man that her biology now told her was _hers,_ a man who openly admitted to slaughtering whole African tribes for the sake of diamonds and who was as menacing and brutal as he was pragmatic and intelligent, and it was almost _impossible_ to believe. She knew she was not a woman who deserved a decent man. She never had been and never would be. She was under no delusions. 

That being said, the idea that was she eternally tethered to a person who was capable of having such _power_ over her, over _everyone_ , having only met her less than a week ago…was utterly, completely and eternally terrifying… Mostly thus because she knew she was nowhere _near_ strong enough to cope with it.

At approximately the size of a guinea, the initials weren't exactly subtle, though she was simply thankful that they were in a place she could hide when she was clothed. (Not that that helped her with Philip, of course. He would expect to see her nude before long,after all, sex fiend that he was).

The worst part of it all was how _inferior_ it made her – _instantly_. While _Philip_ was to remain Unmarked, _she_ was now eternally tethered to him.  While _Philip_ could walk any moment, free from commitment and free from _her,_ Vera was destined to walk through the rest of her life with his initials on her _skin_ , with Philip Lombard as a _permanent_ part of her. She now had no hope of forgetting this day, or this torturous week, or the hauntingly addictive man she met here. 

She was now on a course set for complete and utter dependancy on him, she could feel it already, and she _despised_ herself for it. 

There was no way Philip would ever want her once he knew. She knew that already. After all, he was the very face of a flight risk, just as she was. If he had turned to her with ‘V.E.C’ suddenly Marked on his skin, for example, _she_ would struggle to get out the door fast enough.

“Oh, God,” she breathed as the bile rose up her throat again, leaving her no choice but to empty her empty stomach into the sink.

_“Vera?”_

Philip’s muffled voice broke through her hysteria. She raised her head, suddenly disorientated and increasingly dizzy. She knew he’d be stood with his ear against the oak, doing his damnedest to listen and decipher her sudden change of mood. She hated him for that, in that moment, for not allowing her a _thread_ of privacy. This was all his doing, anyway! Meeting him must have triggered some hormonal abnormality… or _something._ It had to be that. It couldn’t be that she _loved_ him, or was destined to be with him for the rest of her life… It just _couldn’t_ be. 

Deciding she needed answered, Vera threw on her camisole again, not bothering with her skirt, and made for the door. Upon throwing it open, she did of course find Philip there, as he said he’d be, looking concerned but mostly irritated in his confusion. She stalked past him without a word, her destination now the library. 

The Judge had been a clever man, a highly _intellectual_ and _intelligent_ man. He had to have a book on Human Marking Biology. He had to. If not he, then Doctor Armstrong surely left one behind! Grown women were not _supposed_ to develop Marks past puberty. That just did not _happen!_ She had to see if this was something that was normal. She _had_ to understand.

In the library, she set to work fast finding the nonfictional section, which was vast, and within that, human biology, which was thankfully rather concise. The spines were faded in their maroons and moss greens and easy to spot from the more recent publications. She grabbed at them hastily, anything with the word ‘biology’ or ‘Markology’ along the spine, before making her way back down the stepladder and back toward the bathroom. Philip was but two steps behind her throughout, of course, though now he was growing agitated in his confusion and impatience. He was barking questions at her, but she barely heard them, never mind registered them… until soon enough he instead tried to touch her to get what he wanted, grabbing at her shoulders and her arms. 

“Vera! What the hell is goin’ on? _Talk_ to me for Christ’s sake! You’re… _rabid._ ” He was addressing her frenzied behaviour, of course. She ignored him, hugging the books to her chest so he could not see what they were for. “You’re scarin’ me.” Never one to like being left out of the loop, anger began to tick his jaw. “ _Vera.”_

Instead of answering, she ran for it, hoping to get back to the bathroom in enough time to lock the door behind her. She made it just by a fraction, with Philip’s angry fist coming in contact with the wood just a moment later. In that moment, she was thankful for his bullet wound. It made him less agile for once. 

“Vera!” he hollered again, this time sounding more concerned than angry. “What’s wrong?! What are you doin’? I – ” Suddenly, his voice lowered, as though he knew his raised voice was making her shoulders rise with anxiety on the other side of the door. “I want to help ya’ but I can’t help if ya’ won’t _talk_ to me.”

“You can’t help me right now, Philip. I – “ She swallowed and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying so hard to keep her tears from her voice. “Please just trust me when I say… I don’t – I _just…_ need to be alone for a while. _”_

With a deep breath, Vera lay the books down on the rug and sat down, crosslegged, between them. She was _going_ to process this before she made her next move, since it was a move that could perhaps send her only lifeline running for the hills. She was going to take her time and _understand._ Then, and _only_ then, would Philip Lombard get his answer.

* * *

**  
**Theories of Man  
by Sir Lawrence J. Inglewood

1608, England  
  
**The Soul is the Mark of God**

 

 _…Since the dawn of creation and Adam enjoyed the delights of Eden, Man has had ten digits on four limbs; he has grown hair and held thoughts, he has taken on females for reproduction and he has had, etched into his complexion, a dark Mark, telling to his fate. Such is fact._  

_Though this much is certainty, I consider that it is the Mark Man possesses that is of the upmost mystery and the upmost influence. The Soul Marks of Man have been noted and recorded throughout human history, being a matter of confounding majesty in their implications, telling a Man of the words God has equated with his death or of his destined female half…_

_In uniting a man with his mate, most human Marks therefore appertain to the base nature of the animal kingdom as they pair male with female, while simultaneously constituting to Man’s unique emotional intelligence…_

_Man is entirely alone in this privilege as the only species on planet Earth to possess such a Mark; one that provides him with a view of a foreseeable fate – something that has only ever lay stretched amongst the stars for less intelligent creatures…_

_It is my upmost belief therefore that the etching of such Marks on the human body is synonymous with nought else but the hands of God; God’s message to Man that he was his final and most prolific creation…._

_Those without such Marks, the ‘Unmarked few’, are therefore most_ surely _those whom God himself wishes to be known as The Damned, for if they are not deserving of such basic, traditional certainties, (of a comforting paired intimacy with another or the certitude of their own departure from this world), what other conclusion remains?_

 

 

Well into the night, Vera read page after page about the history of ‘Man’, of what was now known as ‘genetics’, of the history of the world and its peoples and of woman’s apparently subservient role within it. She also read many an academic study on sexual attraction and the psychology surrounding such intimacies, how such acts linked to man’s history of Soul Marks and the combination of lasting bonds – words which heated her cheeks and left a sweat on the back of her neck. 

She had never been one to believe in God, but many a reading seemed to equate Marks to such divine interventions, for lack of any other explanation as to just _how_ it happened…just _how_ something so _miraculous_ happened to so many. 

It explained away ‘The Unmarked few’ down to a crude and explicable biblical resignation, one which left an agnostic such as Vera with a bitter taste in her mouth. _Surely if God existed and was so gracious and merciful, he would have allowed all his treasured ‘Man’ to possess such a Mark,_ she thought. Not that it mattered to her now… She wasn’t one of the ‘Unmarked few’ anymore. 

As she read, she almost forgot of her panicked reason for retrieving the collections in the first place, almost putting behind her the existence of the world outside that bathroom, of Philip and his pacing on the other side of the oak door. Such an insular, quiet, empty room took her back to her childhood, where her ability to become absolutely besotted with the novels had flourished; she traded with other girls in school, until she could purchase her own. 

She _almost_ forgot it all, until her eyes settled on another article, hidden deep in a collection on human biology, dated 1929. 

 

 

 _The Contemporary Science Series_  
Edited by A.J Marshall (Professor of Biology at the Imperial College) 1929

**Delayed Marking: Dependant Soul**

_… It is through such readings of the world surrounding that I conclude that there are gradings of the Soul Marks in Man, just as there are prolific gradings within scientific study of Man’s evolution from ape. While it is concluded by any of evolutionist the existence of men of differing calibre, groups of which acquainting to race and ethnic origin, it is my belief that it there are also sub-groups within the long established categories of Soul Marks within the human race._

_Previously, somewhat rudimentary Markology theorists have concluded that the human race has always been split into three distinct Marked groups: Type A, Initialed (‘I.M’s’), Type B, Non-Initialed (’N.I’s’ – informally now known as ‘Numbered’s’) and ‘Type C, Unmarked (‘U.M’s’ – informally known as ‘U’s’ or ‘Blanks’)._

_With overwhelming majority, the ‘Marking’ of Type A and Type B individuals – that is the transitioning phase in which one’s Soul Mark begins to manifest – occurs when a person ‘comes of age’, during the hormonal transition into adulthood and sexual maturity._

_Symptoms are often observed during this transition also, such as itching and nerve pain on the skin, flushes of heat and excessive provocative thinking…_

_There appears to be a group that do not conform to this; a group so minor they seem to have been forgotten amongst academic literature._

_After any an hour observing, I conclude it should in fact be taught that there is another,_ **_fourth,_ ** _subgroup._

_This group is one that does not conform, as their Marking does not occur during puberty._

_Instead, it has been reported that there is a select few to whom Marks begin to appear upon first contact with their ‘Soul Mate’ or first brush with death (Mark type dependant), as though their transition requires a physical, environmental or hormonal trigger before it can manifest and take hold, as any other Marked individuals would naturally._

_In particular to Initialed individuals of this kind, it as almost as though they are_ **_dependent_ ** _upon the person whose name triggered their Marking. It appears to me in my observations that these individuals often suffered chronically tragic upbringings and/or deprivation of love and affection and so perhaps are stunted in some form from an ‘ordinary’’ Marking._

_For this reason, I shall refer to them for the rest of the chapter, and furthermore, as_ **_Type D, ‘Dependents’ (‘D.M’s’) …_ **

 

 

Breathless, Vera sat back in her seat and almost crumpled in despair. 

 _Dependent._ There it was again, the word she had instantly used herself upon seeing Philip Lombard’s initials. She almost laughed aloud at the tragedy of it. _Even an_ academic _was already calling her dependent, and was saying she did not even have a choice in the matter! That it was all in her biology!_ It felt now as if she had no hope of escaping it, not with a legitimate diagnosis of a sort. She had been clinging to a naive hope that somehow she had been mistaken, that perhaps her sleep deprivation, guilt and terror had made her hallucinate again… but as she looked down over her breast, she knew she could deny it no longer. 

She was _Marked_ now… It felt odd to think it, never mind try to _say_ the words aloud. 

The thought made her shake her head in disbelief. _All_ this time, she had been experiencing her Marking and not even known it – ever since that first day, when she had dared to obtain eye contact with the dark, devilish stranger and felt the itch on her skin a moment later. It had been a fraction of the later sensations, so fleeting she barely thought of it, and yet every fibre of her being had _willed_ her to get to know him, on that dock. As Philip had introduced himself, the burning arrived, she recalled. She knew that to be the start of it all, with hindsight. All the signs the unbearably smug girls had boasted of during her days at school had _finally_ happened to her, just as her thirteen year old self always wished they would, simply many, many years late: the itching, like a static storm under the skin, the hot flushes, the burning across the skin…

She suddenly recalled the pain triggered by the long intimate gaze they had shared in the hallway not two days prior – he in just a towel, her in just a scarlet swimming suit. It had been much stronger that second time and accompanied with sensations much more _adult_ than any description she could recall from her fellow classmates all those years ago. As was the way with puberty itself, _perhaps_ Marking as a young girl was gradual, much less intense and suffocating because it happened over years… not _days_. 

The Markings theorist then went on to discuss ancient philosophy and all such historic writers had to say on the topic of Souls…and life and death. She skimmed over most, finding it all for too long-winded and whimsical for her to stomach. Until,

_“Imagine that the keeper of a huge, strong beast notices what makes it angry, what it desires, how it has to be approached and handled, the circumstances and the conditions under which it becomes particularly fierce or calm, what provokes its typical cries, and what tones of voice make it gentle or wild…”_

Instantly, her mind flew to Philip, to his feral nature but also his ability to hide it beneath many a layer of chivalry and uniformity. Chiefly, it reminded her of his ability to _read_ her with as much ease as she read the page before her now… while also masterfully _perceiving_ and _interpreting_ whatever language it was communicated behind her eyes. 

She would never have any hope of concealing her Mark from him, just as she would never have success with any attempt thus far in lying to him. The thought left her stomach in knots because lies had long been her safety net. Without them she felt like condemned woman, a sitting duck… exposed and helpless _prey_. 

With a mournful sigh, Vera stripped herself of her remaining clothes and stood before the mirror, finding herself unable to look upon anything about her body without the lettering of _‘P.L’_ standing out distractingly. The letters screamed at her and left her unable to think of anything besides, as though they were branded on her forcefully with a cattle prod rather than belonging to her own biology, as much as the hue of her eyes or the dark colour of her hair. 

Moving with the stumbling senselessly of the undead, Vera was weighed down her heavy thoughts as she eased herself towards the curl-top cast iron bath, slipping into the, now tepid, water and shivering with the anxiety that blanketed her like a second skin. 

As much as she had always felt… _inferior_ as an Unmarked individual, at least she had grown to understand _why_ she was that way and how it _fitted_ with the person she knew herself to be. 

But now? Now, she felt inferior _not_ because others within social structures made it so, but because she was tethered to a man whom could never understand such a thing…whom would down on her _because_ she was Marked, rather than because she wasn’t.

Her fingers traced the two small letters over and over, as though hoping somehow to will them away. 

 _Now_ , she had no idea who she was supposed to be, because who in their _right_ _mind_ would ever be the type of person to be Marked by a man like _Philip Lombard_? It seemed to be utter madness, yet the answer was _she._ Evidently, _she_ was.

_“... when someone sees a Soul disturbed and unable to see something, he won't laugh mindlessly, but he'll take into consideration whether it has come from a brighter life and is dimmed through not having yet become accustomed to the dark or whether it has come from greater ignorance into greater light and is dazzled by the increased brilliance.”_ _―_ _Plato_ _,_ _The Republic_

The famous philosophical passage remained with her for the hours she lay, motionless, in the bath water – she wondered for _so_ long about it in fact that she ran a whole new portion of hot water because that which she lay in was now stone cold. 

 _Was_ that what she was, what her _soul_ was? Could _she_ be a light now dimmed, not yet accustomed to Philip’s great darkness? (The very same darkness he claimed to _embrace_ as though it were the wings of Saint Peter). 

Or… was she something _else_?

She thought of the siren’s call she had felt so _innately_ , even with all that had stood against them, when she had tried to deny him; of Philip’s ability to hold such power over her without her consent – not that consent would make the slightest difference at all. She thought of the way he made her feel _electric_ and _thrilled_ yet _angry_ and _oh-so-alive_ and _all_ within seconds of one another…and it left her reeling all over again. 

 _Was_ she just adjusting to his darkness… or was this new Mark in fact a sign she had _finally_ ascended from her _own_ darkness and had found a guiding light?

The more she thought of it, the more she willed it to be true. 

Perhaps, _just perhaps,_ Philip was always _supposed_ to be the Soul she would meet on that day, on that train. Perhaps it had been designed this way, by whatever powers it was that willed life to move as it did… A small part of her considered it all _ludicrous_ , as there was no way a man like Philip could at all be described as a ‘guiding light’… and yet the tiny voice of optimism inside her mind would not let go of the small possibility.

It _could_ be that Philip Lombard _was_ her light… as _what if_ a light did not need to be pure, or even clean, to be a guide all the same? After all, the dimmest of candlelight could be enough to bring one out of the darkest tunnel.

 _Yes,_ she conceded to herself, perhaps it was inherently wrong to allow oneself to be guided by a man like that. After all, Philip’s light was no doubt lit with the sparks of sin and greed and _lust_ …and yet, it dazzled her all the same with its brilliance in a way no other had before… _and wasn’t that enough?_  

Couldn’t she have finally found someone who, for _her,_ was enough?

Realisation wafted over her, accompanied with icy dread. 

It didn’t _matter._ In fact, whether Philip was _enough_ for her was the least of her worries. _“You’re forgetting one, tiny detail,”_ she whispered to herself, balling her fists at her own idiocy. “ _You_ may be Marked now… but _Philip… He’s just the same._ ”  

 _None_ of the mattered, because Philip would run.

It was a reality she could not change, or run from, or lie to worm her way out of. Not this time. 

She had not seen Philip suffering with hot flushes and painful static-feeling sensations on his skin, not any day in the time she had known him – not even when they had shared that intense moment in the hallway. 

Smacking herself hard on the side of the head, she felt the hopelessness wash over her again. 

 _No_ , Philip was Unmarked, as he was no doubt destined to remain, considering his brutality. After all, some people were destined to be destined for no one. Some people were considered ‘Damned’ from the start. She had always thought of herself as one of the latter…but the lettering on her breast suggested otherwise. 

Some people were destined for one who would never be destined for _them._

At the arrival of such thoughts, Cyril suddenly lingered her peripheral vision, reminding her of the worst she was capable of… _her_ alone, no one else… and suddenly, deep down, she knew the answer. She said so herself many a time, in fact, having condemned herself long ago.

She did not deserve a decent man. 

She did not deserve salvation…but redemption. 

Thus…perhaps Philip Lombard was _exactly_ what she deserved. 

Maybe, _just_ maybe, they deserved each other.

* * *

**_P. Lombard_ **

 

Philip was not sure how long he sat outside the bathroom, since his wristwatch was abandoned in the bathroom, covered in blood. However, as he rose from his perch against the door and stretched, his spine giving a intensely satisfying pop, it surprised him to see the last of sunset shining through the nearest window. The bad weather and overcast had finally cleared, leaving a breathtaking, picturesque dusk sky in its wake. She must have been in the bathroom for over six hours, he realised, since it had been early afternoon by the time they had walked back from the beach and found Wargrave. 

An uncomfortable sweat settled on his upper lip and the back of his neck at the thought and he began to pace the corridor. It had been _far_ too long for his liking… What was she _doing?_ Why had she run so frenziedly in search of _books,_ all of a sudden? Where had her spontaneous self consciousness appeared from, and what could it _mean_? 

While she was acting as highly strung and emotional as she always did, Philip knew something was off. She had seemed almost… _frightened_ of him as he’d touched her, simply grasping her shoulder in an attempt to get her to slow down and explain, which was a sign in itself. She hadn’t explained a thing and thanks to her _lack_ of a bullet wound, she had been far too quick for him up the stairs and managed to lock herself away. 

Coping with the pain in his arm was exhausting, but a steady flow of U.N Owen’s brandy was a satisfactory homemade anaesthetic. Soon, he felt the burning agony begin to dull as the liquor did its job, allowing his thoughts to focus on the mystery of Vera’s behaviour, undistracted. 

He had chastised himself, in all honesty, as she had barked him out of the bathroom, frustrated. _Why do you_ care? a voice inside him had questioned, sneering at his sudden obedience. _You’ve never cared before._

It was true; women were not something Philip was used to caring for, or _wanting_ to care for. He was experienced in using them to get what he wanted, which was usually a favour of the errand kind…or the sexual kind. But, now? He simply felt _unsettled_ to consider her to be in the same sex as these women, as she was _not_ like them. She would never _allow_ herself to be used, for a start – in fact, if anyone was a professional at taking advantage, it was _she._ Vera possessed such magnificent intelligence and skills of observation and knew her own mind, so any attempt by Philip to take advantage of her would be met with a brick wall. He _knew_ that now. 

She did not deserve to be used by any man. He had long known that to attempt to do so would be incredibly foolish, as one would only live to regret it. (Or, in his case, live to obtain a _bullet_ ). 

Pacing still, memories of her pale, lifeless face bombarded him and his gut abruptly lurched in sudden realisation. _What if she was attempting to take her own life again?_

 _“Oh,_ Lombard, you _eejit!”_ he breathed brusquely to himself, thundering a fist down hard against his thigh and breaking into a run back toward the bathroom. 

She had already attempted to drown herself today and _here_ he was, sitting aside behind a locked door _handing_ her another!

 _“Vera?!”_ he enquired tersely, trying hard not to shout. She had looked frightened of him earlier when he had yelled and, for some unknown reason, that did not sit well with him. Thumping hard against the wood with a tense fist, he was met with a silence that settled a sweat over the back of his neck. 

 _“Vera…_ Y’alright, now?” Still, nothing. Taking a breath, he braced himself. _“Vera?!”_  

He could _not_ let her die. He simply _couldn’t. Not again…_

With no reply to pacify him, Philip stepped back and aimed a kick as strong as he could muster at the lock. The door creaked on impact but didn’t break, so he struck it a second time, then a third. Ignoring the harsh twinges of his stitches in his left arm, he breathed hard and tried a fourth. The wood surrounding the lock splintered, allowing him to barge it down with his good arm and finally it was free. 

His feel carried him into the room with ridiculous haste as all his motivations were entire fuelled by the sight of still figure in the bath. The back of her head was to him, so he couldn’t see her face and despite the fact she was not submerged, his heartbeat hammered just the same. 

“Vera?!” He kept his voice at a less startling volume this time, though he knew it was painfully tense with concern. Before he could even reach the bath, she raised her head in apparent surprise, turning swollen, sleep-ridden eyes toward him. 

Instantly, the tightness in his chest seised. _She’d fallen asleep!_ He would have laughed at him paranoia, if it hadn’t been so utterly ridiculous, aggravating and downright _embarrassing!_  

 _What are you, Lombard?_ he scolded himself. _A shrieking woman?!_

Vera’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of him and she instantly folded her arms over herself, something which seemed to Philip to be uncharacteristically bashful considering what he had observed of her thus far. 

In an instant, her eyes were wide with fury and outrage. “Philip – _what_ – _Get out!”_  

He wanted to laugh at her outrage, as though he hadn’t seen her nudity – _participated in it, even_ – once already. “Vera, _c’mon_. It’s just me – and it’s _evening_ now. D’ya’ know that? You’ve been in here _all_ afternoon. You’ll give yourself a chill dozing in cold water!” 

Suddenly, his eye caught sight of the books lain about the floor that she had so frantically fetched from the library. Intrigued, he moved to inspect the contents of their open pages. Simultaneously to being confused by her continued hostility, he caught sight of the words on the pages, which him _finally_ rewarded him with context to his current situation. 

_Markology books? What could a woman like Vera want with –_

“ – _Oh,_ ” he breathed aloud as the answer to his own question came to him. Just like that, all the pieces seemed to fall into place…though they also left him reeling with the weight of them. 

Vera Claythorne was _Marked… No! Surely not…_

“You _really_ are _unbelievable_!” Her voice was filled with venom and restraint as she hissed it through her teeth from behind him. He turned instantly, the gravity of his new realisation leaving him with no response. By the time he had done so, she was out the bath and wrapping herself in a towel across the room, her back to him. “You’re such a piece of work! I ask you for _one_ thing, Philip – _one thing! – and you won’t even – ”_

She stormed to her bedroom after that, and, inevitably, he followed. He studied her intently from behind; her slim, pale shoulders were squared with undeniable tension and stress. She busied herself by fidgeting with piles of clothing, her face hidden in her wardrobe as she ignored him.  The bed was enticing under his hands as he perched there, suddenly aware how utterly drained and weary he was from all the days profound exertions. _God, how_ he wanted to _sleep!_

As he gazed upon the neurotic woman before himself though, he knew somehow sleep would not be attainable without one final battle. 

“Vera – come here – ”

“ _Leave._ Me. _Alone._ ”

He could sense her impending collapse, in the way her voice was accompanied by a tremor and a thinness that meant it almost cracked. She wasn’t like most women, though; she didn’t say _‘leave me alone_ ’ and in fact mean _‘please stay’_. No, Philip felt the sincerity of those words just as he felt the pulse running through his veins or the pain in his arm. Vera did not at all want him there…the irony of course being that that made him all the more eager to stay. 

Breaking every rule in the book of how to deal with feral, wild animals – and women, similarly – Philip approached her from behind. Her back was to him as she stood in her towel, shaking slightly with the chill of the water that glistened on her skin. She was still now, no longer upholding the pretence of looking intently through her clothing, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared into her wardrobe. He could sense her foundations crumbling, but it did not alarm him. If anything, he _welcomed_ it. It would allow Vera Claythorne to build herself anew, up from the ashes and into a burning, glorious new creature who was empowered and invincible and had all new _purpose,_ without all the guilt and self abhorrence she had harboured since he had met her. 

Mostly though, he just _had_ to know if his new theory was true. 

His eyes scanned the skin he could see, spotting nothing more than the odd small mole or minuscule freckle and the deep red bite marks he had left along her neck… It occurred to him that that perhaps he was mistaken…but such thoughts were instantly banished as he realised that this went against his instinct. After all, his instinct was _always_ right, even if he didn’t know what it was it was trying to tell him. 

“Vera…” She flinched microscopically as he whispered her name, now not a foot from her naked shoulders, as though his tender tone assaulted her sense just as much as his harsh shouts. 

“ _Please…_ ” Her voice was so quiet he barely heard it, despite their proximity. It was a vulnerable plea, uncharacteristically fractious and meek. He lowered his lips to the curve of her neck, his hand ghosting the curve of her towel-clad hip in an attempt to coax her. It seemed to do the opposite. The skin contact was a catalyst for another explosive outburst. She threw herself away from him and towards the door, gripping her towel with white knuckle fists. 

“Oh, why do you _care?!”_ she despaired in a rasping voice, lingering two foot from the door. “Why _bother_ with this, Philip?! You can halt the pretences! We _both_ know you don’t have give a _shit_ about me! You just need me to lie for you to get off this island! I’ll do that – _fine._ That’s _fine –_ but all I ask is that you _leave_ me. Don’t make this break from whatever false connection we’ve made here anymore difficult than it has to be. _Please –_ “

Suddenly, her train of thought made since to him, as she revealed more of her state of mind through her choice of words than she would ever realise. 

She was frightened, frightened of what a Mark would mean for her identity. She was panicking and attempting to close herself off from any further upset… and she considered her separation from him once leaving this island to be just that: _upsetting._

 _But… I think I_ do _give a shit about you,_ he could have said. It’s what an ordinary man would have said, a romantic, sentimental man… but Philip was not such a man. To do so would be to give far too many cards away, much as Vera was doing right in that moment. He knew better than that. 

Having said that, the bleak look in her eyes struck a chord with him. Usually so well guarded with whatever lie she wished for people to see, now they lay bare of arms and open in earnest. They were wide and bloodshot, puffed up and swollen from crying. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Vera _actually_ crying. Crocodile tears, _yes –_ he’d see those already, the day she’d first told them all of ‘poor little Cyril’ – but sobbing, all-consuming, _red-in-the-face_ tears? 

“What are ya’ talkin’ about, ‘ _false_ connection’? It was never – “

“ – Oh, _spare_ me the _bullshit!”_ she cried with one flaming gesturing arm. Her eyes were glassy now, her voice rising in pitch. He felt his chest tighten as his frustration mounted. He did not like to be doubted.

“For _fucks_ sake, Vera – how _many times?!_ I _do not_ lie! Not to you!” He had to raise his voice to get her to remain. He could see she was beginning consider backing out the room entirely. He took a deep breath and attempted to mentally count to ten. “Just… just come ‘ere, Vera, so we can _talk_ about this – properly!”

“Philip. I don’t – “

“ – I _just_ want to talk –“ 

“ – I cannot _do_ this at the moment, Philip. I just _can’t – “_

They quarrelled over one another like a archetypal married couple, neither one actually hearing one another's words. 

“Well, that’s precisely why you _should!_ Y’can’t just _run_ from _everything –_ “ Philip felt the fever of his temper tipping the scales, but he’d never suppose Vera’s would tip first. 

“But I _have_ nothing else!” she screamed, thrusting her hands into the air fanatically, her towel folded securely around herself. Her eyes shined with tears now as they finally burst the almighty damn she had built up with lie after lie and facade after facade. The words bounced off the hard surfaces of the room and left a stark silence in their place, the shock of her outburst silencing them both. “I have _nothing_ left, Philip! _All_ I wanted was some _relief,_ to give me some _fucking_ hope of getting out of this with my _sanity_ and you won’t even give me that!” She suddenly had her hands in her hair. For a moment, Philip thought she might attempt to pull it from her temples. Her face was contorted and she hunched into herself a little, as though she was staring into the depths of hell with nothing but screaming filling her ears. Ripe sobs rose from deep in her gut, resembling wheezes as they disrupted her speech, though she no longer seemed to notice. 

 _And… she’s gone,_ he thought, feeling slightly dwarfed by her walls as he witnessed him crumble at his feet.

“Men like you take _everything_ and leave me with _nothing!”_ He knew that the venom in her voice was not actually directed at him, but was triggered by her testing fear of abandonment. Whomever ‘Hugo’ was, he had left Miss Claythorne with a wound that would clearly not heal in haste. 

Before she could run, he blocked her path, leaving her no choice but to step back and back and back until she fell to the bed. He straddled her body before she could escape him and began his most sincere attempt to neutralise her rage. “Shh, _shh_ , Vera,” he whispered not an inch from her face, pressing his lips to her cheek, then her lips and back again. “Calm down.” 

She was attempting to push him away, punching and resisting against his chest, though notably careful to avoid his bad arm. 

“Please, Philip,” she whimpered. “Please, stop.”

He ignored her, even _more_ gentle pressing affections over her face as she attempted to turn her face away from him, kissing whatever skin it was his lips met. It was as though his tenderness caused her greater pain, as her wheezed sobs and whimpers accelerated. 

“ _No. Please,_ no,” she gutturally wailed as a sob racked through her body and took over her words. “Don’t make me want this… Please, _please –“_

He felt her pleas against his face as the air whispered over his skin. “Tell me, Vera,” he breathed against the curve of her cheek. Her dark eyes were staring into his now, wide and begging, her lower lip trembling under the force of tears. “I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

She shook her head with the frantic nature of a child, caught with the last if the biscuits, another weep bubbling up before her speech could. “No! I _can’t –_ You’ll just – leave me.”

He could taste the salt of her tears on his tongue as he smattered more kisses over her face, hoping to pull her from the wreckage with enough tenderness that she would not drown in her despair.

“Please!” she continued, groaning sorrowfully. “If you’re going to leave me, _please_ just _go._ ” 

The question now was simple. Once it was over, how much of her would there be left of her to save?

“I’m _not_ going to leave you,” he replied, making sure to lock his eye contact with hers so could see the absolute truth in his eyes. “Not once have I ever said I would leave you.” He held her moist, pale face in his good hand, almost smiling when she was unable to keep from relaxing under his touch. “Just tell me…” he broached, carefully. “Just tell me where it is.”

“Where _what_ is?” 

He bit his lip to keep from snapping at her. “Don’t try play your lies on me, girl!”

Her eyes changed, now suddenly aware that he _knew._ They welled with tears afresh that were of such supply that they overflowed instantly, streaming down past her temples and into the dark, wet hair that fanned out around her head. She convulsed with a sob but attempted to reel it in from behind her hand as she clutched it over her mouth.

“It’s all going to be _alright,_ Vera…but I _need_ to know. How can I protect you if I don’t know everything?”

Within an instant, the ghost of her usual fire sparked in her eyes. “I do not _need_ your protection, thank you!”

He grinned, though it lasted just a moment. “I know ya’ don’t, darlin’.” He lowered his right hand to the base of her neck, admiring the fine lines of her clavicle under the milky skin… and the primal bruising he had left there. “I know.”

She shook with silent weeping but held her ground. For a long moment, they stared into the eyes of one another, willing the other for mercy. 

Philip won,of course. 

She held her breath entirely as she let the towel fall away, turning her head against so she did not have to look at him, pleasing the side of her face into the sheets. Her body was rigid with the tension of revealing a new, _desperately_ heavy secret. 

It took all of two seconds for him to find it… and all of _ten_ to quite believe it. 

There, true as the blood in his veins, marked into Vera Claythorne’s skin were the letters of _his_ name. 

That he had _not_ expected and it left him entirely without footing for response. 

Vera, albeit entirely enticing, intriguing and hopelessly _dark_ , was also incredibly _neurotic_ and high maintenance, evidently governed completely by her high emotional capacity. It was for that reason he was entirely surprised to find he was supposedly _meant_ for her. He was the opposite of her in so many ways; he had always thought of himself as opposed to self-indulgent, needless displays of emotion, despite the fact he was very often simply _unable_ to feel the emotions anyway. He was a _perfectionist,_ yes, but did not fixate once a goal had been successfully reached. Vera, on the other hand, was eaten alive by the death of _one_ child at her hand, by the loss of _one,_ fairly _insignificant_ life… and yet Philip had lost count of those he had taken – such was their insignificance to him. 

It just seemed so completely and entirely unlikely…and yet there it _was_ in pigmentation on her skin.

As he stared at it, lowering his gaze to the underside of her breast for closer inspection, he felt a guttural urge race through him at the sight of it. 

 _Never_ again would she be able to have another man without the letters of his name become the focus of conversation. Never again could she look at herself in the mirror without thoughts of him. 

He bit his cheek to keep from smirking. _Never again would she be able to undress without thoughts of him._

Subsequent to these thoughts, she must have felt the reaction of his body against her thigh, as he felt her fidget and her breathing change. Suddenly, the crying had all but seised. Her eyes were wide, staring into his, blatantly confused – the skin around them pink and swollen. She evidently did not understand his arousal and was expecting him to leave, her chest rising and falling silently beneath him. Raising a hand, he traced the lettering with his thumb, feeling her shiver under the delicate touch. Her tremors continued as he replaced his digit with his mouth, marking the letters with a reverent kiss. He felt her breathe a sigh of relief, the movement inching her pale breast further into his face and he became chronically distracted. 

“Philip?” her enquiry was as fragile as a butterfly’s wing as seemed out-of-sorts with this reaction. Drawing back his lips, he caught the Marked skin between his teeth, immediately telling her of his libido. 

“It appears we’ve hit quite the development, darlin’.” As he spoke, the scent of her skin, freshly clean from her bath, enticed him further. His mouth watered with such sudden, intense desire as she reached down and grasped him by the hair. She seemed shocked as she looked into his eyes and saw mirth. 

“You’re not… _put off?”_

That was it. He could halt his chuckles no longer. He wanted to hold her to him hard but could not to do with the level of vigour he wanted with his bad arm. 

“Don’t _laugh_ at me!” she beseeched, pushing against his shoulder in a hard jab. 

 _“Put off?!”_ It tickled him greatly that she assumed such adolescent behaviour of him. “Oh, Vera,” he sighed good-naturedly. Looking into her eyes, he met the sight of a wonderful conundrum. Her insecurity was obvious, her emotional investment and fear of said fact clear to see… but equally clear was her renewed resolve. In the sky blue of her eyes he watched as her broken pieces began to come together in an emotional mosaic – one far, _far_ more beautiful than any perfectly formed glass wall she could hide behind. He drew her in for a kiss that spoke more of his relief than it did of his acceptance, though he intended to communicate both. Her choice of the words ‘put off’ set him cackling again, this time mid-kiss, as it circled his brain. Meanwhile, his hands found themselves drifting south, until his hold were filled with her soft curves, velvet-like and pale.

“If you continue to laugh at me, Philip Lombard, you may just find that your _cock_ joins your arm in needing medical attention!” 

Her voice is terse and dry against his cheek, nipping argumentatively at his lower lip – the sensation sparking fire that burned in his bloodstream. His shook his head with a grin, taking her Marked skin back into his mouth with the savagery of a starving man. He was proud of her for her tenacity. _Yes,_ she was prone to hyperemotional episodes and would, most likely, be wracked by guilt for the rest of her days… but somehow such things no longer concerned him. Somehow, he knew they could make it… but he also knew they would only make it together… and that mattered for something. “That’s my Vera.”

 _“Yours?”_ She questioned in surprise, the question as though the word were incomprehensible. 

There was no backing away from this, he had gathered that. The magnitude of the moment before him did not surpass his notice, nor his understanding…and while he should be frightened, or disinterested, or entirely disillusioned, he found, to his surprise, that he instead felt simple contentment. 

She whimpered out beneath him as they became one again – cautiously taking a care with his bad arm. _There was such_ beauty _in simplicity,_ he thought as Vera bared her neck to him with a guttural cry of ecstasy. _Only meeting Vera Claythorne had taught him thus._

“If you so choose,” he replied against her ear, as though someone outside their bubble would hear if he spoke it any louder. The warmth of her body knocked him senseless with the relief of an addict. Her kisses were desperate but slow as her hands tightened into his hair painfully, asking him not to let her down… asking him to _care_.

 _I will try,_ he wanted to say, but the words remained suppressed, fluttering in his chest. _I’ll hurt you,_ he should have said, but his selfish need for oblivion drowned them beneath the waves. _Most definitely, I will… but you’ll forgive me… just as I forgive you for your humanity._

“If you’re mine, too,” she whispered in reply. “Then…perhaps I could… _try_ , yes.”

If he were a decent, considerate man, Philip would have warned her: _I have never needed anyone_. He’d say, _this is all new to me._ If he could, he’d say, _I_ want _you all the time._ But mostly, he’d say, _I don’t need_ _anyone_ … _but I don’t mind_ pretending _to need… Not for_ you _._  

Instead, he settled for in between.

 _“Vera…_ Who else’s could I ever be?”

 

They fell asleep, curled up like lovers that night – something Philip was not partial to. He preferred to get in and get out when it came to women… but this? Well, it wasn’t altogether too awful. Not at all, in fact. 

“What happens now?” Vera had whispered, well into the night, her lips moving against the back of his neck where she had nuzzled her face. It had made him shudder involuntarily, despite his lethargic state. He remained motionless with heavy closed eyes, sensing her restlessness where her frame met his, curled into him like an elegant dessert spoon. 

“I have a plan,” he slurred softly, barely able to move his lips in his exhaustion. His arm throbbed where his sling held it against his chest, though her breathing tickling his neck gave him a wonderful distraction. He wanted to sigh frustratedly at her agitation – did she not have faith in him? “Though, we won’t be goin’ anywhere if I do not sleep.” 

She fidgeted some more, curling a small, strong hand over and around his bare middle. At this, his lip twitched with a slightest hint of a smirk in the darkness. It pleased him that she was secretly so possessive. 

“Go to sleep, Vera,” he sighed, hopefully. His frame shuddered again as the warmth of her bare breasts pressed moved flush against his back. 

“I’m…not sure I can.” 

Her words were so quiet, he was sure she had not meant for him to hear them. They confirmed his suspicions about her guilt ridden soul, one of the man reasons he should perhaps detangle himself from her as soon as possible. 

But then, in truth, he was not sure he _wanted_ to. 

Gently as to not jolt his arm, he rolled onto his back to look at her, her dark eyes eagerly sought his face for a clue to his thinking. _Always so eager, Miss Claythorne._ He gazed over her pale skin in the darkness, reaching his good hand over to touch her again. It painted a smile back onto her face, evidently desperate for his attention, perhaps even his affection. 

“I’m right here if y’dream,” he assured after a moment more quiet, extending his neck just enough to kiss her head. “Y’ll be alright with me here – that, I can promise.”

She didn’t speak again, but settled back into her position against his back, seeming to fit against him just so. It smoothed him to have her lips in the curve of his neck. He felt them smile against him. 

“Goodnight, Philip,” she whispered, her voice thick with appreciation. He didn’t move to acknowledge her gratitude – he had no doubt that it would embarrass her – but it made him smile, either way. 

“Goodnight, darlin’.”  

She did dream, as it happened. Her nightmare clearly perturbed her, drawing Philip out of his own peace – light sleeper that he was. She mewled in distress into her pillow, rousing him as she rolled and twitched. He leant into her side and whispered to her, intent of keeping his word. 

“Vera, it’s Philip.” She whimpered and furrowed her brow in response, as though attempting to trudge her way through the inky cloak of her nightmare. She thrashed again, inadvertently knocking his wound, triggering a loud hiss to sound through his ground teeth. Lifting him good arm, he pulled her into his chest. Her skin was flushed and slick with sweat, despite her being completely nude. “Come on now, Vera. You’re dreamin’.”

When she did come to, her eyes were wide with disorientation and terror. He found himself holding her to him with the affection of a tender lover again – not something he ever much considered prior to meeting Vera, nor something he would usually waste time or energy with. However, if it was what the woman needed to sleep then he would do it, because they both could do with as much rest as they could get. He didn’t ask her what she dreamt of; he didn’t have to.

“Philip!” she gasped at the sight of him, her eyes clearing of their fearful fog. “Oh, thank god!” He pulled her against his good side, her head slotting into the curve of his neck. He held her there so that she could not raise her head and dwell on the images that had visited her sleep. “Sorry,” she slurred guiltily against his throat, her voice small and shy, almost like a child. “I’m sorry. Philip.”

“Shh,” he hushed, his eyes painfully heavy. “Don’t think about it. Don’t think. You have the power over your mind, Vera. _You_.” Her warmth was a delightful opiate, a heady distraction from reality – primarily his arm, which throbbed in renewed agony as the liquor no longer numbed his veins. “I’m ‘ere.” Turning his head, his tucked his nose into her hair, inhaling the soft, powdery scent of her and feeling it settle his pulse. 

Vera may be unpredictable, even volatile… but, wrongly or rightly, she was fast becoming his solace. 

When she woke, Vera felt ashamed. The last thing she had wanted was for Philip to witness one of her nightmares, to witness her a whimpering, frightened, _weak_ mess. What must he think of her? She felt her face flush with shame as she eyes blinkered against the daylight that flooded the room. It was clearly past dawn, the sun shining through the windows, painting streaks on the rug. She lifted her head just enough to squint and take in the room, suddenly aware that her face had been burrowed against Philip’s side, her forehead pressed against his ribs. His hand was hot against her bare back, pressed flat at the curve of her spine. It made her lips quirk in a small hint of a smile. Even in _sleep_ he was possessive. 

“W’are ya’ smilin’ like that for?” 

The question took her by surprise as it rumbled deep from his chest, as she had not even realised he was awake. His face was still the picture of peaceful slumber, smooth and void of expression. His eyes were still closed, but his voice was as smug as ever. How was it that he always _knew?_

“Oh, s’nothing,” she denied softly, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically bashful at her physical neediness. She nudged herself to sit, holding the sheets loosely to her bare chest. In her periphery, Philip’s olive skin tone stood out tantalisingly in contrast with the stark white of the sheets. The cover had shifted in the night, now barely covering his most intimate anatomy, the deep ‘V’ of his refined abdomen making her mouth water. She could easily move over him now, take what she wanted from him and get her satisfaction – he would hardly complain – but to do so would suggest of her inherent neediness. She _hated_ to feel this _dependent._ It made her cringe and want to claw at her own skin. 

“With you, it’s never nothin’, darlin’,” he hummed knowingly, still not having moved a muscle. 

She swallowed, knowing he was unlikely to let it drop. He wanted her honesty, something she found incredibly hard to give. She felt his hand rise and smooth over the skin at the base of her spine, ghosting the cleft of her buttocks. Her eyes fluttered closed in restraint as she flushed with desire.

“You…” The words were hard to pin down. She looked down into her sheet covered lap, suddenly fascinated by the sight of it. “You… _holding_ me like that…” Saying the words aloud made her want to flee from the room; there was such _truth_ in what she was trying to say, no games or lies or hidden intentions. It left her feeling exposed in a way her physical nakedness never could. “I liked it, that’s all.”

He flexed his fingers are her back before threading them into the hair at the base of her skull to make her lift her gaze. Guiding her face down to him, he looked content as he studied her with narrowed, smiling eyes. He rose his eyebrow, encouraging her to elaborate. “‘Liked it’?” 

She clenched her fists in her lap and swallowed the urge to panic and withdraw. His burning fingers danced patterns along her spine, stoking lust in her blood. “Like it,” she breathed, her chest tight. “It’s possessive – “

The digits danced further south until he had a handful of her left buttock. “ – Possessive, hm?”  

“Like I’m… _yours._ ” His grip was so tight that it almost hurt, but she revelled in it. 

“Mine?” He was echoing her for the sake of humour, but she was entirely serious. “And you ‘ _like’_ being mine?”

She let herself droop until she was laying over him, flush against him from chest to calf. His eyes glittered with mischief as he mocked her, which earned him a sharp pinch to his flat stomach. In this position, she could feel all of him, every hard edge and curve, and it made her feel hot all over. She didn’t want to admit it, but as his fingers smoothed along the underside of her breast, memories of the previous days events came rushing back. The bathroom. Her Mark. _Philip’s_ initials. 

“I don’t want to,” she confessed, closing her eyes so she would not have to witness the offence he might take from her admission. “I don’t _want_ to depend on you.” She felt his morning glory pressing into her hip. Evidently it wasn’t just her _lies_ that left him reeling. “I don’t want to lose _me_.”

Philip’s body was suddenly very still and it made Vera hold her breath. Whenhe finally peeked out one eye, he was gazing at her as though seeing her anew. 

“I don’t want that either.” He pulled her into searing kiss after searing kiss, then, holding her face firmly in his hands. “It’s who you _are_ that I want.” Suddenly, he was serious again. “Though, for my plan get us out of here to work, you’ll have to put her away, just for a little while.” 

Looking into her face, Vera raised an eyebrow in intrigue. The strand of hair that fell continuously into his eyes even when attempted to be tamed with Brylcreem was now fully-formed perfect spiral curl. Without the effects of the wax to smooth it, it appeared that Philip’s state of self was in fact considerably less prim and proper. She reached out to touch the waves and curls, no longer ashamed at her desire to do so. He didn’t protest or pull away, but, typically, smirked at her interest. 

“I like these!” she said, tugging on his forelock curl and grinning with mischief she hadn’t felt since well before the island. 

He wriggled slightly and returned the expression before trapping her hand between their flush bodies. He then reached down and tugged on body hair of hers that was considerably more intimate, causing her to squeal and he to chuckle, menacingly. “I like _these_.” 

 

When he finally got around to telling her of him grand plan, it was just past six thirty. Once they were finally up and dressed, having been throughly distracted by their intimacy and newfound privacy, they set to work putting it into action with the efficiency of a well oiled machine. It seemed clear that their fates were now perpetually entwined; a fact that neither could ever escape. 

Philip watched as she dressed herself in her latest costume and rehearsed the necessary lies in the mirror. It aroused him anew to hear them, to know that he had created them, to know that they were words from _his_ mouth that she told with such craft and skill – as though they were nought but earnest thoughts entirely from her own mind. He told his in return, a back and forth not unlike a rehearsal for a play, and then stood dutifully as she schooled him on how to make his lies better. It made him uncomfortable, to be told what to do, especially by a woman, but it also thrilled him. It was new, it was fresh. It made him stand straight and take notice, for he knew of her immense skill in replicating and performing other peoples stories, other peoples emotions. He told his lies again, whispering them against her neck as he helped to pin her curls in place, and her reflection smirked at him, looking smug and proud. 

It felt like their destiny, to unite together in their sins, their armour; he in darkness and her in false humanity. Together, but _only_ together, they had a chance of making it through no man’s land. 

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter took a lot of time, since I seemed to make it hard for myself by needing to write fictional literature about marks and all that........... so feedback would be MUCH MUCH OBLIGED (i.e. would make my rather shitty week). 
> 
> See y'all soon for the epilogue.......


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